It all depended on the relationship between Markham and her parents. Which would take time to figure out. Time she didn’t have. Someone in a nearby apartment laughed, startling her. She let out a breath. She had to discover who was trying to kill her. She cast an impatient glance at the clock. Where was that software?
The steganography tutorial arrived later that night, along with instructions on how to download the software. Jay had created a special page on his website just for Lila. She saved the software to her computer and brewed a pot of coffee.
Jay had speculated that a message—if there was one—might be embedded on her father’s business website. But where? It was a daunting task. Hilliard and Associates’ website contained pages and pages about the company’s background, bios of officers and staff, plus a series of client case histories and photos.
She decided to start with the images. Opening her father’s bio page, she right-clicked his photo and saved it in a new file. Then, following the instructions in the tutorial, she opened the software, then dragged the photo of her father into it. She right-clicked it and selected Reveal.
She hesitated when asked for the password. The password he always used was Casey49, his name and the year of his birth. He’d disclosed it to her and Danny years ago, in case an emergency called for immediate access to his files. She sucked in a breath, typed in Casey49 and pressed Enter. A command asked her to re-enter it. She did.
A moment later, a command asked for the encryption algorithm. She was elated. The password worked! Brimming with relief, she typed in Triple DES. Then, Reveal. And waited to see if anything was hidden on her father’s photo.
Nothing came up. She sagged, then repeated the same process on another photo of her father shaking hands with a client. Nothing. She did it again on photos of the other partners and senior staff, again with no results. Then she moved to some of the logos of his clients, methodically repeating the same process. Nothing.
Three hours later, hopelessness set in. Lila had no guarantee she was searching in the right place. What if he’d embedded his message on a client’s website? Or another unrelated website? Or none, for that matter? She still had no idea if she was looking in the right place. Time was growing short. She checked her email to see if there was a reply from the HideAway people. Nothing.
She stood up. It was after two in the morning. She hadn’t been outside in over twenty-four hours. Fatigue and desperation were sapping her energy. She felt like she was looking through the back end of a telescope, the images small and blurry, barely perceptible.
She went into the bedroom and turned on Danny’s small TV. It was tuned to CNN. Now that she knew who he was, Ted Markham seemed to be all over the news. Tonight he was marching in a torchlight parade honoring breast cancer survivors and stressing the need for more efficient health care.
She snapped off the TV and burrowed under the blankets, watching the patterns from passing headlights creep across the ceiling. Once this was over, once the danger had passed, she would resume the search for her mother’s family, and her first call would be to Ted Markham. She wondered if her father’s name would be enough to get her past his handlers. Her father had never mentioned him, which was puzzling. If they’d been close, shouldn’t she have heard Markham’s name, at least once or twice?
The bedcovers bunched up around her legs. She kicked them off. Her father had so many connections. It was his gift, they said—the ability to bring people together. No question it had helped him grow his business. But over the years the important connections—emotional, intimate ones—had eluded him. For example, he never remarried. As far as she knew, he’d hardly even dated. All those connections, and yet, where did they lead?
Something scraped against her consciousness. The thought was familiar; she’d come across it before. She sat up in bed. Something told her to mentally trace it. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing it to come. Where had she heard it? Connections that led nowhere. Interwoven. Overlapping. Braids.
When she got it, she threw the covers aside and leapt out of bed. She ran to the computer and clicked onto her father’s website. The logo of Hilliard and Associates was a stylized Celtic knot. She’d always wondered why he chose it. Its intricate pattern of entwined braids and knots looped back on itself, going nowhere. Looking at the interlaced threads now, though, you could argue just the opposite. That the patterns were circles within circles, with links and connections to everything. Like her father.
A burst of energy kicked in, and Lila quickly copied the image and dragged it into the software. She entered the password, typed in the encryption method and clicked on Reveal. Something was there! It was the name of a file: bcinfo.txt
Her hands shaking, she went back to the tutorial. It instructed her to use the Save As command so she could save the file on her desktop. She did, then double clicked to open it. The entire contents of the file was:
www.Hilliardetal.com/bc
Her eyes widened. It wasn’t exactly a website, but she was fairly sure she knew what it meant. Her father wanted her to go to a special location on the Hilliard and Associates website. She entered the proper URL, including the slash (/) and the letters “bc.”
She was taken to a page containing a PDF file. Opening it required a password. She typed in the same one. The filed opened. It was a scan of an official-looking document. She leaned forward.
Certificate of Live Birth. May 15, 1970. 10:35 p.m.
That was her birthday—hers and Danny’s. And 10:35 was the time her father said she was born. Danny had come two minutes later. This was her birth certificate. She read on. She barely registered the sudden whine of an engine outside.
Female. Northwestern Memorial Hospital.
She squinted. In the box where the father’s name was required, “Casey Hilliard” was printed. In the box for the mother’s, the name was “Alix Kerr.”
She gasped. Alix Kerr? Her mother was Alice, not Alix. Monroe, not Kerr. She stared at the document, blood shouting in her ears. Sebastian Kerr was the department store mogul whose store was bombed by Dar Gantner forty years ago. Alix must be Alixandra, his daughter. The girl who was killed when the bomb went off at the store.
She went to the kitchen in a daze and filled a glass with water. She was just taking a sip when the world exploded.
TWENTY
The waves gently rocked Lila. She was floating somewhere dark and warm. She was surprised at how content she felt—deep water usually frightened her. Far away, up on the surface, a bright watery light beckoned. She decided to swim towards it and started a slow breast stroke, the way her father had taught her. But as she drew closer, the light exploded into a shimmering mass of ripples. Too much. Too harsh. She sank back into the darkness. She’d try again later.
This time she was near the surface, and the light was closer. But something was blocking it, protecting her from the worst of the glare. And there were sounds. A rustle here, a whisper there. The current was pushing her closer. But to what? She didn’t know, and she didn’t want to leave the blackness.
“I think she’s coming to,” a woman’s voice said.
Lila crashed through the surface and instantly wanted to dive back down. Fiery pain stung her. Her skin felt like it was crawling with biting red ants. The pain demanded all her attention. She wanted to scream, but her mouth wouldn’t obey. The noise came out as a moan.
The woman’s voice again. Calm but concerned. “Easy does it, baby. I know it hurts, but you’ll handle it. It won’t get any worse. Try to let it roll over you. Meanwhile, I’m going to spray your skin with something.”
A cool and soothing sensation misted her face. For a few seconds, the pain retreated, and she relinquished the tight grip on her consciousness. A minute passed. Or was it five? Her eyelids began to flutter. Slowly she opened her eyes. A woman’s face swam into view. Blurry, out of focus. A widow’s peak on her forehead. A kind expression.
“Hello, Lila.” The woman’s brow smoothed out. “I’m Cece, and we’ve
been worried about you.” She lifted a hand, and for a moment Lila thought she was going to brush her fingers against her forehead. Don’t, she wanted to cry out. Hurts too much. The woman’s hand halted in midair, as if she’d heard her.
“I’m not going to touch you. You’ve got some mean abrasions on your face. But they’ll heal, and you’ll be just as pretty as ever,” the woman said. “You’re at my house, in Franklin Park, by the way, and I used to be a nurse.”
Lila made a croaking sound.
“Dar, bring her some water.”
For the first time Lila was aware of someone else in the room. She tried to turn her head to see, but the effort was too great. She fell back against the pillow.
“Don’t try to move, sweetheart,” the woman said. “The best thing you can do is sleep. There will be plenty of time to talk.”
Lila closed her eyes. She heard an uneven tread of footsteps. Someone was dragging a foot. Limping. “How is she?” A man’s voice. Soft. Worried.
There was a beat of silence. “As well as can be expected,” the woman replied.
“Here. Open your mouth.” Lila felt a straw slide between her lips. “This is water. Take a sip.”
She did.
“Good girl. Now go back to sleep.”
She did.
When the motorcycle pulled up to the curb, Dar was climbing out of Cece’s Honda. He’d taken to staking out the Evanston condo at night, convinced whoever had shot at Lila would be back. Cece wasn’t happy about it, but he always got the car back to her by dawn.
The night was sharp and clear; the moon looked glued onto the dark sky. Arctic air bit through his clothes. Dar stayed on the street until his fingers and toes went numb. Then he went back to the car and blasted the heater.
If her pursuers were whom he thought, they wouldn’t give up. They would be as relentless as they’d been with Casey, Payton, and Rain. But Lila was an innocent. She hadn’t even been alive when everything went down. Why target her?
Five minutes. That’s all the time he would give himself to thaw. He pulled his gloves back on and was back at the building when the motorcycle pulled up. A high-tech design, blue and gray plastic extending from the front. A BMW Enduro. His stomach pitched. He knew that bike.
Dar ducked into the gangway next door but kept the man in sight. The rider swung his leg off the bike and studied Lila’s building. Then he started around to the back. Dar crept out of the gangway, his gym shoes muffling his steps. Enduro Man mounted a set of stairs that led up to porches on the upper floors. Lila lived in the second-floor apartment on the left. Inside, a shadow passed across a window. She was up. Walking around the kitchen.
Enduro Man stopped at Lila’s landing. Unzipping his jacket, he slid his hand in and fished out a small object. Dar gasped. Dread shot through him. He sprinted across the yard.
Too late. Enduro Man pulled something from the object he was holding and tossed it onto Lila’s porch. A grenade! Then he wheeled around and raced down the steps. A thunderous bang split the night. Lila’s door blew in, glass shattered, flames erupted. At the base of the steps, the goon stopped and looked over his shoulder. To admire his handiwork, maybe? Twisting around, he caught sight of Dar. He froze.
Dar froze too. He knew he should make the first move. Tackle the guy, try one of those holds he’d learned in prison. But he couldn’t make himself initiate a fight. They faced off, staring at one another, each knowing the other was an enemy. Then Enduro Man bolted across the yard and disappeared around a corner. A moment later an engine roared to life. Tires screeched.
Dar charged up the steps, hoping they would support him. But when he reached Lila’s porch, most of the floor had collapsed. The blast had ripped away big chunks of floorboards, exposing the joists underneath. The back door had been blown apart: the top half hung at an angle from its hinge, while the lower half was in pieces. Flames licked the walls, and the smell of char and burnt plastic wafted out.
Dar strained to hear a sound, any sound that would indicate Lila was alive. Except for the crackle of flames, it was silent. But it would be a short-lived silence. Already lights were snapping on. Soon sirens, radios, and the jangle of emergency equipment would fill the air.
What would the police do when they found an ex-con on the site where a hand grenade had exploded? An ex-con who once killed several people with a bomb? Was that why the man on the motorcycle used a grenade?
Common sense said he should flee. Get out before he was discovered. Help would be arriving in less than a minute. She’d probably be okay. He should put a lot of space between himself and Evanston.
No. Not this time. If he let the paramedics take her, the killers might try again. If she was still alive.
He stepped carefully from the landing across what was left of the porch. His balance wasn’t what it used to be, and one foot landed in a large gap. He slipped and fell. He broke his fall with his hands, but sharp pain shot through his ankle. He waited for it to subside and tentatively circled his foot. The movement produced a fresh stab of pain, but the fact he could move it meant it wasn’t broken. He dropped to his hands and knees and crawled the rest of the way to the door.
A sprinkler gushed water from the kitchen ceiling, and most of the flames had died. Still, a curtain of black smoke hung in the air. He stripped off his pea coat and threw it over his head. Lila had to be nearby —he’d seen her shadow moving before the grenade went off. His eyes raked the debris.
There! Near the sink, under a layer of rubble that might once have been a table, was a leg. An arm protruded nearby. He crawled to her. Her torso and face were partially covered by rubble, and she wasn’t moving. He sucked in a breath. But when he looked more closely he saw the shallow rise and fall of her chest. She was alive. He allowed himself to exhale.
A siren whined in the distance. Gently he wiped debris from her face. An ugly gash marked one cheek, and her forehead was bleeding. Lacerations scored her hands. He got to his feet, then bent down and scooped her up. His ankle screamed in pain. He struggled toward the front door of the apartment.
The impact of the blast diminished the further away he got from the kitchen, and by the time he reached the door, there was no damage and little smoke. He opened the front door. Thankfully, there was a small elevator in the hall. He punched the call button, and when the elevator came, he staggered inside and propped Lila against the wall.
By the time they descended to the lobby, his ankle was on fire. Sweat beaded his brow. The sirens sounded closer. Lights blazed up and down the block. He limped outside, with Lila in his arms. Cece’s car was under a streetlamp. Could someone identify the license plate? It didn’t matter. He had to get her in the car.
He lurched to the car and fumbled the door open. He laid her gently on the back seat. As he pulled away, a police cruiser and fire truck turned onto the block.
TWENTY–ONE
The next time Lila opened her eyes she felt logy, as if her brain was still underwater. She was on her side, the covers over her, a pillow under her head. A man sat in a chair beside her. He was wearing white gym shoes. An Ace bandage was wrapped around his left ankle. She blinked. White gym shoes in winter. Where had she seen those?
She forced herself to roll onto her back. Arrows of pain shot through her, but she studied him. Dark hair salted with gray. Dark, smoky, worried eyes. A long, gaunt face. The lines on it told a story of a hard life. He looked familiar.
“I know you,” she croaked.
He nodded.
She willed the connection to come. When it did, an icy recognition flooded over her. “You’re the one who fell on me the night I was shot at!”
He nodded.
“Why?”
“To protect you.”
“Why? Who are you? How do you know me?”
The man cleared his throat. An odd look crept across his face. Sorrow, she thought. She squinted. He looked much too familiar. The night on the Gold Coast wasn’t the only time she’d seen this man. The connection fired.
“Are you … oh my god! You’re one of the men in the picture with my mother. You’re Dar Gantner!”
He nodded again.
Recognition turned to panic, and Lila looked wildly around the room. She struggled with the bedcovers thinking she needed to escape. But all she managed to do was tangle the sheets. Her throat was raw and hoarse. “Who … what do you want?”
Cece came running. “It’s okay, sweetheart. He won’t hurt you. He saved you.”
Lila recognized the soothing voice, the widow’s peak. But her pulse was still racing, and she felt hot and cold at the same time. Nothing made sense. This woman was good. Dar was bad. And yet, he had “saved” her? “What the hell is going on?”
The man got up and started to pace. He was limping.
The woman sat on the edge of the bed. “Someone threw a grenade into your apartment. Dar was there when it happened. No … ” She held up her hand. “He didn’t do it. But he saw who did. You’re hurt, but nothing’s broken, and you’re going to be okay. Good thing you were wearing sweats. They helped protect you.”
Lila tried to process what she was hearing. The bandages tugged her forehead and made it hurt. “They’re Danny’s,” she said absently.
Dar stopped pacing. “Daniel,” he murmured
Cece went on. “Your face took the brunt of it. They’re superficial, but you won’t want to look in the mirror for a while. Your hands are torn up too, but the pain should lessen soon.”
Lila looked at her hands, which were wrapped in gauze. But Cece was right—the pain had dropped a few notches. Now she just felt achy and sore. She didn’t have the strength to flee. She turned to Dar. “You still haven’t told me why you saved me.”
Set the Night on Fire Page 12
